Portrait of Jonathan Read online

  Bello:

  hidden talent rediscovered

  Bello is a digital-only imprint of Pan Macmillan, established to breathe life into previously published, classic books.

  At Bello we believe in the timeless power of the imagination, of good story, narrative and entertainment and we want to use digital technology to ensure that many more readers can enjoy these books into the future.

  We publish in ebook and print-on-demand formats to bring these wonderful books to new audiences.

  www.panmacmillan.co.uk/bello

  Contents

  Margaret Dickinson

  Author’s Note

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Margaret Dickinson

  Portrait of Jonathan

  Born in Gainsborough, Lincolnshire, Margaret Dickinson moved to the coast at the age of seven and so began her love for the sea and the Lincolnshire landscape.

  Her ambition to be a writer began early and she had her first novel published at the age of twenty-five. This was followed by twenty-seven further titles including Plough the Furrow, Sow the Seed and Reap the Harvest, which make up her Lincolnshire Fleethaven trilogy.

  Many of her novels are set in the heart of her home county, but in Tangled Threads and Twisted Strands the stories include not only Lincolnshire but also the framework knitting and lace industries of Nottingham.

  Her 2012 and 2013 novels, Jenny’s War and The Clippie Girls, were both top twenty bestsellers and her 2014 novel, Fairfield Hall, went to number nine on the Sunday Times bestseller list.

  My writing career falls into two ‘eras’. I had my first novel published at the age of twenty-five, and between 1968 and 1984 I had a total of nine novels published by Robert Hale Ltd. These were a mixture of light, historical romance, an action-suspense and one thriller, originally published under a pseudonym. Because of family commitments I then had a seven-year gap, but began writing again in the early nineties. Then occurred that little piece of luck that we all need at some time in our lives: I found a wonderful agent, Darley Anderson, and on his advice began to write saga fiction; stories with a strong woman as the main character and with a vivid and realistic background as the setting. Darley found me a happy home with Pan Macmillan, for whom I have now written twenty-one novels since 1994. Older, and with a maturity those seven ‘ fallow’ years brought me, I recognize that I am now writing with greater depth and daring.

  But I am by no means ashamed of those early works: they have been my early learning curve – and I am still learning! Originally, the first nine novels were published in hardback and subsequently in Large Print, but have never previously been issued in paperback or, of course, in ebook. So, I am thrilled that Macmillan, under their Bello imprint, has decided to reissue all nine titles.

  Portrait of Jonathan, my third novel, was published in 1970 during the same week in which my first daughter was born.

  Epigraph

  ‘Man’s love is of man’s life a thing apart, ’Tis woman’s whole existence.’

  Don Juan —Lord Byron.

  Chapter One

  ‘You cannot possibly contemplate such a thing.’ Giles Eldon thumped the table with his clenched fist to emphasise his viewpoint. The cut glass tinkled, the silver rattled and the candles flickered.

  There was an uneasy silence around the table following his outburst, and, as he realised he had spoken out of turn, embarrassment spread across his young face. He saw that his mother had raised her fine eyebrows—she could not let her son’s discourtesy in criticising their hosts pass without rebuke—but he saw too that her eyes belied the purse of her lips.

  Giles relaxed a little—his mother, at least, agreed with him though she could not voice her unanimity. Giles glanced at his father and at his eldest brother, Jonathan. His father’s frown was easy to read for he was seated on the other side of the table though not directly opposite Giles. His brother’s expression was somewhat more difficult to discern for the latter was seated next to him and his head was inclined towards their hostess. Lady Sarah Kelvin. But he could imagine that Jonathan’s face wore a similar expression of censure as their father. Lord Melmoth, Giles thought irritably. He was always in trouble with one of them, he mused, though ‘affectionate’ trouble he called it. He knew it was only his impetuosity which led him into difficulties. As a family they were devoted to each other: he could see that now after having spent but a few hours in this house and having seen the contrast between their family life and that of their hosts, Viscount and Viscountess Kelvin.

  Giles’ restless eyes returned to the cause of his outburst. The daughter, Lavinia Kelvin, was seated opposite him, her eyes downcast on her plate, upon which the food was almost untouched. She could not be more than fifteen or sixteen, he supposed, perhaps not even that, though she showed signs of blossoming womanhood. Her dress, no more than a child’s party dress with short, puffed sleeves, frills and a wide sash, was too small for her. The blue silk was faded and, he could imagine, mended here and there. Her black hair was drawn tightly back from her face into two plaits looped around her ears. Her face was pale and plain. Her only appealing feature was her large brown eyes, which, Giles had noticed when she had dared to look at him—only once during the whole evening, held such a world of misery that the young man’s ready pity was instantly aroused.

  ‘And why not, pray?’ The shrill voice of Lady Kelvin at the end of the table penetrated Giles’ wandering thoughts. He turned his eyes from the girl to the mother. Lady Kelvin was a thin, shrewish-looking woman with eyes like a viper and a mouth to match.

  ‘My son forgets himself, Lady Kelvin,’ Rupert, Earl of Melmoth remarked, his low, cultured tones easing the tension somewhat. Giles, a little surprised, noticed that his father’s tones held no note of reprobation towards him, and had he not felt some sympathy with Giles’ view, then undoubtedly his anger would have been apparent.

  Did the Earl of Melmoth agree with his younger son then? And, Giles thought, what of his brother?

  It was an ill-assorted gathering, Lord Melmoth mused, and one which came together for the first time, and probably, as the evening progressed unfavourably, for the last. Their host, Lord Kelvin, who lounged at the head of the table, was the only son of Wilford Kelvin, Earl of Rowan, a close friend and business partner of Lord Melmoth, who together formed the ‘Keldon Shipping Line’. The chief occupation of their fleet was tea-transporting from China. On receiving the invitation to dine with ‘young Kelvin’s family’, the Earl of Melmoth and his wife had been thrown into somewhat of a dilemma.

  ‘But my dear,’ Evelina had spread her expressive hands, ‘ what can they want of us?’

  ‘Hmph,’ the Earl had grunted, ‘ “want of us” is a good way of summing up this little invitation, my love. Undoubtedly, Gervase Kelvin is short of money, as always, but ’tis the first time he has presumed upon my friendship with his father and approached me.’

  ‘Are you going to accept the invitation, Rupert?’

  ‘I wish I knew how things stood between Rowan and his disreputable son—there would be my answer. If they are reconciled now, my refusal would hurt Rowan, and that I would not have for the world. And yet, if the gulf is as wide between them as ever and the quarrel still on, then my acceptance is almost insulting to my friend.’ He had sighed. ‘A predicament, my love, to be sure.’ He had tapped his pursed lips with his forefinger.

  ‘I think,’ he said slowly after a moment’s pause, ‘it would be diverting to accept
and see what the young man has in mind.’

  The ‘young man’, however, whom the Earl had not seen for some fifteen years, had changed beyond recognition. It was almost impossible for Lord Melmoth to believe that this man was his friend’s son, so dissimilar were they.

  Gervase, Viscount Kelvin, was obese in his figure, gluttonous in his manner and totally lacking the finesse which his birth demanded. He was a disgrace to the family name of Kelvin and, in particular to his long-suffering father. He had caused Lord Rowan a great deal of unhappiness, anger and final disillusionment, Melmoth knew. He remembered the frequent occasions—years before—when Rowan had confided in him on his fears regarding his son.

  ‘He is totally lacking in every characteristic which I admire in a man, Melmoth. I can never allow him to join the “Keldon Line”, that would only add to my worries,’ Lord Rowan had said dispiritedly. ‘But what am I to do?’

  This particular conversation which Melmoth remembered now, had been caused by Gervase’s unsuitable marriage to Sarah, a girl who, though of good parentage, was far too weak-willed to be of assistance to her dissolute husband.

  ‘This will kill his mother,’ Lord Rowan had said in anguish and sure enough, within six months of Gervase’s marriage, his mother, a sweet and charming creature, was dead.

  That, Lord Melmoth thought, was the beginning of the final break between father and son. Instead of trying to mend his ways, Gervase had gambled more, drank heavily and had relied more and more upon his father to pay his debts and support his family. Within eight years of their marriage, five children had been born to Gervase and Sarah, Melmoth recalled, but only the first two had survived, the three younger children dying before they had scarcely drawn breath. As a young man Gervase Kelvin had possessed a moderate degree of good looks and charm, and with the advantage of his birthright, he should have embarked upon a distinguished career. But his character was sadly lacking in the qualities so necessary to achieve distinction. How two persons of the calibre of Lord Rowan and his beautiful wife could have produced such a son was a mystery to all who knew the family intimately—and it was a life-long source of mortification to Lord Rowan. Gervase Kelvin had slipped from careless youth into rapacious manhood. His choice of marriage partner was a disaster, but there was little Rowan could do to prevent the union. Sarah had never been even pretty: her thin face with its sharp features, beak-like nose, darting eyes and narrow lips, and five children within eight years had left her thinner and more haggard than ever, her tongue sharper, her voice whining and petulant.

  Lord Melmoth’s eyes turned towards the children of the marriage. The eldest, Lavinia, was a pathetic creature and shown no affection by her parents—all their love (if they were capable of such a worthy emotion) was showered upon their son, Roderick. He was a pale, pimply youth with a weak chin and deceitful eyes. During the hour or so he had been under their roof, Melmoth had summed up the situation. The girl was ill-used by the other three—so much so that on entering he had thought her the maid for she had opened the door to them and had helped to serve dinner, and it was not until she had taken her place at the table that he, and he was sure the rest of his own family too, had realised with a shock that she was the daughter of the house.

  The Earl could not help but compare this family with his own. As he glanced, with affection, at his wife she looked up and caught his eye. He knew, with that inexplicable rapport between man and wife, that through her mind were passing the very same thoughts which possessed him. Evelina, Lady Melmoth, was a picture of serenity and elegance and on her beautiful face all the kindness and generosity which was her nature was shown. Melmoth revelled in his good fortune at having met such a woman and never ceased to marvel at their happiness, and he guarded the affection of his family jealously.

  Melmoth’s eyes moved to his eldest son, Jonathan, Viscount Eldon. He was now twenty-seven, and, Melmoth thought, it was high time he was married. Jonathan had been rather wild in his youth, of course, Melmoth reminded himself, but only natural, high spirits, nothing—degrading, like Gervase Kelvin. Of course Jonathan had become entangled with that flighty girl, Anthea, who had treated him so cruelly and had finally married Lord Thorwald, a man over twice her age but extremely wealthy. Had Jonathan really loved the girl or had it been merely youthful infatuation? Melmoth sincerely hoped it had been the latter for the girl was not worth Jonathan’s affection. Melmoth smiled ruefully. The boy could never forget her, though, whilst he bore that scar down his left cheek which, rumour had it—though Jonathan had never divulged his secret to a soul as to how he had come by it—that he had fought a duel over the girl. Duel indeed, Melmoth almost snorted as he remembered his anger at the time. But that had been the last of Jonathan’s wild escapades for since that time he had passed straightway into manhood and he was indeed a son to be proud of now: sometimes perhaps a little too serious, such a change from one extreme to the other. Perhaps he still cared for Lady Anthea—Melmoth sincerely hoped not.

  His attention turned to his younger son, Giles. He was beginning to participate in the same wild escapades in which Jonathan and he himself in his youth, Melmoth had to admit, had indulged in. Still, there was no harm in the boy and age would rectify these faults—he was merely impulsive and impetuous.

  There was a marked contrast between the appearances of the two brothers. Jonathan was tall and thin with brown, wavy hair and dark brown eyes. His face, once boyishly handsome, had thinned a little too much so that his cheeks were hollowed and the ugly scar down his left cheek marred his looks. His mouth, usually serious, could flicker into a smile somewhat lopsided now because of the scar, thus giving him an almost cynical twist to his smile. But his eyes were warm and kind. Over his dress he was fastidious and the cut of his clothes was immaculate—a little dark and sombre, Melmoth mused, for he himself had lived in an age of more dandified styles for men, and the latest trend In men’s dress where trousers, tailed coat and even waistcoats were all of the same sober, dark hue, did not appeal to Lord Melmoth. But, he had to admit, his son Jonathan wore such clothes with a quiet air of distinction. Giles, on the other hand, wore his clothes—a little more colourful and flamboyant—with a careless, and yet somewhat dashing, air. He was not as tall as Jonathan though by no means short, broad like his father, with fair, curly hair and side whiskers. He was ever seen to be laughing, his blue eyes twinkling merrily, and Melmoth sometimes despaired of Giles ever accepting the responsibilities which life would undoubtedly hold for him. He was for ever in a scrape of some kind needing the calming influence of either Lord Melmoth or Viscount Eldon.

  Tonight’s outburst was a typical example of Giles’ impetuosity. But, Melmoth admitted, this particular incident could not arouse the anger of either himself or Jonathan, for undoubtedly they both found themselves in agreement with Giles.

  A remark by Lady Kelvin had provoked Giles’ violent disagreement.

  ‘Lavinia is to dine with Lord Myron tomorrow evening, Lady Melmoth. I have great hopes of an alliance between Lord Myron and my daughter, though I must admit she is sadly lacking in the kind of qualities and beauty Lord Myron admires.’ She paused, glancing disdainfully at her daughter. ‘But for some reason he seems to find her attractive.’

  Her voice held a note of incredulity, and the girl blushed in embarrassment at having her person discussed with guests.

  ‘You are all dining with Lord Myron tomorrow night?’ Lady Melmoth said conversationally.

  ‘Oh no. Lord Myron specifically asked that Lavinia should dine with him alone.’

  There was an uneasy pause before Giles broke the silence angrily.

  ‘You cannot possibly contemplate such a thing!’

  Chapter Two

  When the ladies had withdrawn leaving the gentlemen to their port, Lord Melmoth tried tactfully to broach the subject with Lord Kelvin.

  ‘Do you think it wise, Kelvin, to allow your daughter to visit Myron completely unchaperoned? He is—ahem—er—not quite the sort of man to know how to treat a
young girl.’ Melmoth almost smiled at his own understatement of the case.

  Lord Myron was a lecherous old devil, in whose company no woman, and least of all a young, naive girl, was safe. Besides which, Myron was a business rival of Melmoth and Rowan, running a tea-transporting line of clipper ships in partnership with Lord Thorwald. Lady Anthea, in spurning Jonathan’s affection in favour of Lord Thorwald, had dealt him the double blow in allying herself with the rival company. Competition between the ships of the two lines was fierce and Melmoth was not convinced that their rivals were above underhand dealings. In fact, at the first mention of a proposed liaison between Lavinia Kelvin and Lord Myron, Lord Melmoth had immediately wondered what mischief lay behind the scheme.

  Gervase Kelvin was up to no good, and would, Melmoth feared, cause even more heartbreak to his father. However, he thought as he sipped his port—cheap port it was too—no doubt he would find out soon enough for it was now obvious that he and his family had been invited to dine with some definite purpose in view.

  Melmoth glanced round the room. Only the area around the table was well-lit leaving the surrounding parts of the room in shadow. To a purpose, he thought, for he could discern that the furnishings were shabby and no doubt the silver upon the table was the last vestige of the wealth to which Gervase Kelvin had once had access. Now, his source of income stopped, the family had moved from house to house each time having to lower their standards until they had come to this—a furnished house in a middle-class part of London, with time-worn furnishings and personal clothing. No doubt Kelvin was after lining his coffers by compromising his daughter with Lord Myron. Heaven help the poor child! thought Lord Melmoth at once finding himself in total sympathy with his youngest son’s earlier outburst.